Pity the Child
by Weiila
Summary: Erol reflects on his own childhood while watching Jak in the prison. Unpleasant but nongraphic themes.


_Disclaimer: Not mine, everything belongs to Naughty Dog Inc. This fic was written as a kind of prize, but no profit was involved in the making of it._

For Hikari-Starr at DeviantArt, who got my 4000th page view and got to request a fic. She wanted something about Erol's childhood. Of course, Jak is the one paying for it. Oi.

Pity the Child

Poor boy.

There is something very animalistic about his every move, now. That way he curls up, trying to make himself as small as possible in the corner. Legs folded beneath him, fingertips and nails scraping the floor, at the end of the claw-like bend of his fingers. Every detail down to the pulled back ears and the head trying to disappear between his shoulders.

And myself, closing the cell door behind me and walking to the corner opposite his, sitting down on the floor. At perfect ease, pulling up one leg so I can rest my arms on it and lean forwards.

His hands twitch.

Every last muscle tense. The dull lamplight shimmer across a thin layer of cold sweat already coating his brow, and there will be more by the second.

Violence is overrated.

I smile, and his tight lips pull back in a snarl.

Just look at that. So little needed, and his panic is spiked. It's filling the air, so intense that even I tense in anticipation. But no, there's no need to rush. Perhaps I won't even lay a finger on him tonight, it has happened before. Letting him off the hook now and again only gives him that tiny bit of hope – and not knowing if that will be broken only adds to the fear.

But the best part, which draws me to him, is that there isn't only fear. Behind the sweat and his constricted form is a rage that still hasn't faded, even after almost a year. It intrigues me, to see how long it will last. I haven't seen anybody hold out this long before cracking.

No one except me of course. But then again, the tactics I faced were too crude – however, they could also have sufficed, had I been weaker.

I do feel a certain degree of… fear, when recalling a large hand raised to strike me. But those memories are nothing that keep me up at night. There are far more interesting things to occupy me at the late, sleepless hours. It doesn't even have to be anything like what I'm currently doing, watching that… poor boy.

It's simply nothing worth lingering over. Ah yes. It's such a cute excuse however. "The psychologist hired by the court has confirmed that the defender suffered during his young years due to a violent parent." It's just another way of saying that the criminal had a really… disagreeable childhood.

And that's that. Anything can be blamed on a few years of trauma, and the accused is excused, a reason found which the lawyer can use to hinder or shorten the sentence.

And oh how my poor boy bristles when I chuckle to myself. That deserves another smile, sending him flat against the wall.

As if I would credit anything I have become, to my father. To blame him is saying that he made me what I am, and I would be indebted to him. Hardly.

I made myself, I worked my way here with my own hands and skills. He had no claim on anything I accomplished. No claim on me.

However… I may at least admit so much – since he was my father, after all – that my disdain for him did give me the drive to be different. As I said he was crude… very crude in his ways. And there was a bit of fear for the hand that struck, yes. But it was that basic fear anyone would feel in the prospect of sudden pain.

I'm hardly aversive to use violence. But then it has its rightful place, in order to be effective. My father tried, but he could never break a person – not even me, especially not me.

He was simply… boring. It's a feeling I had, which I know that this boy cannot share. That is what I've made obvious now – and what I've created. He is animalistic now. Sooner or later that too will break, and it will be interesting to see if the remains will return to be somewhat human.

As for my father, again… I may have made my feelings obvious many a time, which made him strike again of course – because he knew he could not win, not even against the child. To his last breath he knew this, and I reminded him with a whisper in his ear, brushing aside the blood trickling from his brow before I bent close.

As opposed to him, I work to properly win against this child. He is certainly not bored – his rebellion is more desperate… natural, you may say. And yet, he is stubborn.

I stand up and give him another smile before turning and heading to the door, slipping my keycard through the lock – keeping an eye on him, keeping him where he is until the guards step up into view. Though he tries to hide it, there is a sparkle of relief in his blue little eyes.

Ahaha.

This is how I don't need violence – not now. It suffices for the moment to leave him be, for that relief will in a minute turn to fear. He'll remember that because I left him now, I certainly won't tomorrow. Already the realization is creeping upon him, his hands clenching.

And I smile.

No matter how stubborn the boy is, I am more skilled than my father, and I will succeed. I will break this child, and he will always know that I will forever be superior to him, and that he will never be able to defeat me in any way.

You could never say "poor boy" about me. I never allowed it to get to that.


End file.
